


Before I Hit the Road

by CluelessKitten



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Gen, Ghosts, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-03-20 18:19:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13723341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CluelessKitten/pseuds/CluelessKitten
Summary: Tim dies and spends the afternoon baking with Alfred.





	1. Chapter 1

It's strange to think of, looking back on it now.

Tim remembers being three and getting a hug from a young gymnast. He remembers Batman swinging across the skyline with the city lights twinkling in the background, smog crowding out the stars. He remembers Robin's laughter, Robin making mistakes, Robin learning, Robin being all the things Tim never was back then.

Back then, Tim wasn't much.

Back then, Tim wasn't anything.

Tim isn't much now.

Tim isn't anything.

He stands next to the kitchen counter of all things. He's in Wayne Manor, in the goddamn kitchen, and that's not a place anyone really imagines when they think of their last moments. At least, not anyone he knows. There are a hundred other places he probably could have ended up, what with all the traveling he's done over the years. He could have gone to Paris, or Kansas, or even just his childhood home.

But.

Wayne Manor.

Of course.

Alfred stands in front of him, gathering ingredients together for oatmeal cookies. Tim stares at the elderly man for a long time, or maybe it just feels long, but finally he clears his throat.

Surprisingly, Alfred turns around.

"Master Timothy," he says, and there's warmth in his eyes. There are more lines around it now than there used to be when he was a kid, but age won't beat out Alfred Pennyworth for a long time yet. "You did not say you were coming to visit today."

"Hi, Alfred," he says with that lopsided, sheepish smile he forgot how to do after Dad died. It comes back to him easily now, though, and he wonders if it's like this for everyone. If it's this … peaceful. "Sorry. I just thought I'd drop by today, take some time off the office."

That's a lie, of course. Somewhere in the real world, Tim's body is lying broken in a wrecked car, shoved off to a corner of an intersection on the way to work. He can hear sirens in the air; he can smell his blood. In a way, he can even feel the pain.

It's a stupid way to die.

Tim gestures to the baking items on the kitchen island. "Mind if I help?"

Alfred moves aside and hands him a measuring cup. "Not in the least, Master Timothy."

He only has a few moments left on Earth. And Tim does think that if he'd like it enough, he can go anywhere, do anything he wants with this time. But he's here, in the house where he first felt at home. He's here and it's warm and it's bright and he bakes cookies with one of the men who raised him. They preheat the oven, measure and mix ingredients. Talk is sparse, but that's the way things have always been.

It's not a bad way to go. Maybe Tim should have gone to Dick, or Bruce, or – hell, Steph or Cass. But he's here, sharing time with Alfred, and he can't say he'd rather be anywhere else.

Even if he can feel himself slipping away.

The phone rings.

Alfred excuses himself, and it's a struggle for Tim not to simply fade into the background. He listens to Alfred answer the phone, listens to the sound of his voice. Tim knows who it is – they've finally identified him, after all. Probably found his ID in his wallet, or just recognized him by face if it wasn't too mangled by the crash.

At least Damian or Jason will get a laugh out of it. Third Robin, Red Robin, Replacement, rival (or however Damian sees him nowadays) taken down by a car crash, of all things.

There's a pull inside Tim, growing stronger and stronger, like the ocean current.

He closes his eyes.

Cool marble under his hands.

The smell of oatmeal cookies in the air.

Alfred's voice in the next room – quickly growing frantic with denial.

Growing up, Tim always wanted a family – a real family, the kind that was always there. The kind that loves you unconditionally, forever, no matter what. He never got it, not really, but as he stands in the coziness of the kitchen, leaning against the counter, with the smell of freshly baked goods filling the air, he realizes that it wasn't all bad if he can have something like this in the last moments.

Not bad at all.

 

 

"I'm afraid you must have identified the wrong person," Alfred says tartly into the phone's receiver, "But Master Timothy cannot have gotten into an accident as he is here with me."

Of course he is, they were both just baking in the kitchen. The boy is fine, not an overly long strand of hair out of place on that head of his.

It must be a mistake.

It is a mistake.

He simply fails to see how anyone could have made it. Who would ever think that Master Timothy had gotten into a car crash? It might be something worth looking into later, but not now.

When he returns to the kitchen, Master Timothy is nowhere to be found.

Unease ripples through Alfred. Strange things are known to happen –  _very_  strange things are known to happen, and maybe–

He shakes his head. There's no use leaping to conclusions, not now, not about this. Calming the wild beat of his heart, he makes a call to Master Bruce and prays it isn't true.


	2. Chapter 2

It was idiotic.

Stupid, hare-brained, careless – the sort of thing none of them would ever  _do_. Alertness was drilled into their core; they're trained to know their limitations.

So, Tim isn't dead.

Tim can't be dead.

Dick walks towards the morgue, because Bruce is out of contact and Damian hasn't even been informed of the incident yet. Dick has been dragged out of the office to identify the corpse of some sorry bastard who looks a little too much like Tim.

He doesn't like the way people look at him as he's guided down the corridor. It's too familiar, too close, too soon, and he suppresses a shudder.

Tim isn't dead.

The morgue isn't an unfamiliar place. The air is cool, the smell of cleaning agents strong along with the nearly irascible tinge of flesh. The coroner pulls the cloth back.

The corpse is Tim. Except it can't be Tim.

Dick is shaking. Dick is on the floor. His legs have disconnected, and he holds onto Tim's hand. It's cold, it's stiff, it smells cleaned, and the investigator has some questions, Mr. Grayson.

It has to be fake. Tim has survived so much, how could he have died from a  _car crash_?

He needs to call Bruce. This has to be some sort of new plot or scheme, although he's not sure what it can be. Maybe Tim is finally getting back at him for faking his death. Maybe this is … some sort of fluke. Everyone has a lookalike somewhere in the world, don't they?

Dick sits on a chair and doesn't know how he got there. There's a police officer sitting in front of him, a mixture of sympathy and concern in his eyes. Dick knows this man, vaguely, knows he's good at what he does and the GCPD is all the better for his involvement.

"We discovered some curious injuries on your brother, Mr. Grayson."

Dick swallows. "That body … is not my brother."

"Pardon?" The officer – he can't remember the name now, doesn't need to, it doesn't matter – leans forward, interest igniting in his eyes. "Are you saying Mr. Drake is alive, Mr. Grayson?"

It's an effort to bring his eyes to meet the officer's but sometimes a little goes a long way. "My brother isn't dead."

"I'm afraid he is, Mr. Grayson." Sympathy clouds the man's eyes once more and if Dick wasn't already drowning under water, he would be shouting, would be screaming and hitting the desk with his fist and demanding a dental match, demanding that someone find his real brother. "The DNA results have yet to return, but his ID was found at the site of the crash, and-"

"Officer," Dick says, almost patronizingly, "My brother wouldn't get into a car crash."

Tim is so meticulous, so careful, so analytic … he would never…

The officer tells Dick a story. He weaves with simple, formal words that tell a tale in which Tim has been worked to over exhaustion. A story where Tim is bruised and bandaged and broken beneath his suit with a stomach content of coffee and not much else. A story where Tim fell asleep behind the wheel and ran into a truck piled high with metal poles. A story where Tim was speared in several places and lived for all of maybe half an agonizing minute before he died.

But Tim isn't dead.

Tim can't be dead.

The story is a lie.

Can Mr. Grayson account for his brother's undocumented injuries and scars? Why is Mr. Drake's spleen missing? Does Dick know what's been going on in Tim's life? Has Dick been in contact with Tim recently?

The last question breaks through the surface, crashing into the water with a powerful wave that ripples through the mighty depths unseen. And Dick's unbridled rage surges forth and wreaks havoc on the man.

Did he think Dick would hurt his own brother? Did he think Dick would  _let_  anyone hurt Tim if he knew? Did he think – did he think–

Is he right?

Is Tim dead?

Dick excuses himself and calls Bruce.

 

 

There is no scheme.

Dick calls Bruce a liar and hangs up. He ignores Bruce's calls, refuses to read the text messages pinging his phone one after the other. He turns off his phone–

And finds himself face-to-face with Alfred.

"It's not him, right, Alfred?" he asks because Alfred will not lie. Alfred will tell him only the truth, and the truth is–

Alfred looks old, looks old, looks haunted, and he wraps his arms around Dick and says, "I'm so sorry, my boy."

 

 

This is the truth.

Tim was-is- _was_  a vigilante, head of one of the biggest companies in Gotham, and a high school dropout. Tim worked alone, for the most part, and handled his own cases; he had problems and injuries, and too many nights he didn't eat or sleep properly. Or at all.

The truth is that Tim had lost his spleen, and the only real solution was to maintain a healthy lifestyle.

The truth is that Tim's body collapsed from neglect while he was driving, and he ran into the truck in front of him.

Tim is dead, because of things that should have been manageable, things that shouldn't have been deadly, and there is no one and everyone to blame.

This is the truth.

Bruce is called back to Gotham, and he is silent and cold to approach. Damian is … trying to be the same, but Dick knows bravado when he sees it. Alfred seems older now, and there is a video from the security cameras in the kitchen area that cannot be explained.

They're being investigated. It's insulting, but inevitable, considering everything the coroner's report turned up. There are rumors and all sorts of articles in the newspapers and magazines…

It's tiring.

Dick is tired.

He's stepping down – maybe temporarily, maybe not – and he sorts Tim's things. He goes to Tim's apartment and sees how it still waits for someone who will never come home. He's packing Tim's life into cardboard boxes, trying to choose what should be kept – he has a suspicion he's putting too many things into the 'KEEP' box, but he'll leave it to the others to narrow down which things actually end up staying with them.

The funeral is tomorrow.

There are so many things he never said, that he never explained, and what will he say at the eulogy? What can he say for the brother he never fully reconciled with when he can't hear any of it?

Why did he wait?

In the closet, Dick finds a box of old photos, from the time when people still developed film. Most of it is from Tim's days ghosting after Batman and Robin, but there's an old, framed picture that catches his eye.

It's the first, the one that started it all: the photo the Drakes had requested with the Flying Graysons so long ago.

He looks down at the old photograph, his thumb rubbing tenderly over the faces frozen in time, encased in glass. Life was so much simpler then, so innocent.

Carefully, Dick places the framed picture in the correct box, and runs a hand over his face. There's a weight that settles onto his shoulders when he finally straightens up and surveys his progress so far. It's not encouraging; there's still so much to go through, he'll probably be busy for the next week and he doesn't know whether he wants to give up and ask for help, ask for someone to sort Tim's old possessions with him, more than he wants this to himself - to see what Tim left behind, and maybe have this one last thing, have one last moment between Tim and himself.

At the bottom of one of the drawers is Dick's old university sweater, and he laughs, shakily. So, that's where it went; he didn't even notice.

There's a lot he never noticed. But that's what you get from the kid who stalked Batman without ever getting close to being caught.

Dick laughs until he sobs, and it's got to be a pathetic sight: a grown-ass man sitting on the floor of an emptied apartment, crying over a worn out sweater he didn't even realize was missing until now.

"I'm sorry," he gasps in between tears. And it's so cliché and so incredibly useless because  _it's too fucking late_. "God, Tim, I'm so sorry! I'm sorry I lied about dying, I'm sorry I didn't believe you, I'm sorry I didn't talk to you about giving Robin to Damian, I'm  _sorry_. I'm so fucking sorry…"

He chokes. "I love you, little brother."

A week ago, that might have meant something.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this fic! I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> (Originally posted on ff.net)


End file.
